


Christmas Wrapping

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, M/M, Sort of a 5+1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28015428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30
Collections: Gallavich Holiday 2020





	1. "Bah, humbug" no, that's too strong/Cause it is my favorite holiday/But all this year's been a busy blur/Don't think I have the energy

Mickey was tired, no, exhausted. Being a regular citizen, with an on-the-books job as a grease monkey, changing screaming hot car oil day in and day out, left him covered in a film of scum and with random burns on all his exposed skin, fatigued to his bones at the end of the day. The upcoming holiday was the light at the end of his tunnel; the lube shop was closed all Christmas day and shutting early on New Year’s Eve. Not opening late on New Year’s Day, that would be excessive, practically condoning employee’s going out to overindulge. Or so his manager, Mark had pontificated, when Mickey's been hired almost a year ago, upon his release from MCC Chicago. 


	2. Last year ….. /Encounter, most interesting/Had his number but never the time

Before he’d gotten this job, just after his release, Mickey’d met this guy at a bar downtown. Mandy had dragged him to the gay bar, happy he was finally able to “live his truth” in the wake of Terry’s fortunate early demise, but all the loud music and swaying flesh had been a little much for him so soon after gettin’ out of prison. He’d stood like a piece of furniture at the bar, pounding back drink after drink, warily eyeing anyone who came near him. Mandy’d quickly left him to go dance. Finally drunk enough to look around with feeling the nauseous fear that still dogged him sometimes (courtsey of fuckin’ Terry, long may he rot in hell), a guy caught his eye. He wasn’t a dancer, wasn’t half dressed, or high, with lazy sloe eyes, but something about the way he moved easily through the club suggested to Mickey that he was _too_ familiar with places like these, that there was probably a story there. Didn’t hurt that he was ripped, tall and pale, the way Mickey liked em’. Ginger, too, which was surprisingly appealing. 

The redhead bellied up to the bar next to Mickey, but Mickey didn’t react. Kept his cool, only letting his eyes wander a little. He could tell the guy had a six-pack, and a vee-line. As his eyes drifted lower, to the jeans that seemed painted on, he got an eyeful. The dude was hung. Guiltily, he looked up, right into the gorgeous green eyes that were watching him gleefully.

Mickey closed his mouth with a little noise of embarrassment, then stared committedly at his empty drink, shame radiating off of him. 

For a moment, nothing happened, then the hot guy stepped away from the bar. 

_Good. That was good, it was over, nothin’ bad had happened._

A full drink landed on the bar in front of him, and Mickey looked up, puzzled. 

“I didn’t-” he began, but the bartender shook his head, short curls shaking playfully like a halo around his head.

“Someone sent it to you, with this.” The bartender slid Mickey a slip of paper.

_Ian 312-692-4646_

Mickey clasped the paper in his fingers, pressing his thumb over the letters and numbers. 

The next morning, before his first day on the new job, hung-over and bleary, Mickey found the number on the floor of his minute kitchen, and stuck it with a magnet to the fridge. He looked at it sometimes, when he got home from work, thinking.


	3. Flashback to springtime, saw him again/Would've been good to go for lunch/Couldn't agree when we were both free/We tried, we said we'd keep in touch

After three months at his new job, Mickey had exactly one sick day earned. Of course he wasn’t sick on the first truly warm day in April. Mark knew he wasn’t sick; Mickey’s fake cough wasn’t even vaguely believable, but he had the time, so Mark let it go.

It was Mickey’s first weekday off since he’d started, and his first weekday afternoon to kill since before he’d been locked up. While the idea of staying in bed all day, drinking beer, and playing video games was appealing, the warm breeze around his neck when he went out to check the mail convinced him to try something else. After a quick breakfast and shower, Mickey wrote out a shopping list.

Pulling his boots, he made the decision to head down to the Logan Square Farmer’s Market. He could spend time outside and pick up some fresh food while he was there. Shoving a few recyclable bags in his back pocket, Mickey hopped the bus and took the short ride to Logan Square. As he stepped off the bus, he knew he’d made the right call. The market was well populated- it was a beautiful, clear day, but not so full that he got itchy. It was only 11am on a Thursday.

He wove his way through the stalls, snacking on free samples, brushing off buskers and would-be pickpockets, keeping his eyes open. His shopping list wasn’t fancy, but it was the staples he needed: Fresh baked bread, some good cheese, some spreads or shit. There was one place that made a ridiculous garlic spread: logically, Mickey knew it was just garlic, oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper, but fuck if it didn’t taste like magic on a sandwich.

Having acquired all but the first item on his list, Mickey was circling back to find the bread guy, when he stumbled across a stand he hadn’t seen when he’d been to the market on a rare snowy Sunday in the past. The stand didn’t have a sign, but there were piles of small, brightly colored, candies in buckets and bowls. Mickey’s mouth watered, and he stepped closer to the jewel-colored confections.

He was so caught up in reading the small, neatly-printed signs on each bucket ( _ rhubard-caramel-ganache, coffee-cookie-burnt sugar, raspberry-mint-choclate, and more _ ) that he didn’t notice the stallkeeper’s approach. When he looked up, Mickey’s mouth dried up instantly.

It was club guy, Ian. As if Mickey hadn’t stared at the hand-written name and number on his fridge every day since the night at the club, never brave enough to call, but hopeful enough not to throw it out. Internally, he smacked himself. The handwriting was an exact match; he should have noticed that shit.

Realizing he’d been silent and weird, Mickey tried on a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Hey… uh, hi.”

“Hi, there.” There was no animosity in the man’s voice, only gentle surprise and maybe happiness? “Do you want to try a sample?”

Mickey did. After tasting and exclaiming over a few items, he made his decision. “I’ll take a half pound of- of whatever you recommend. I trust you.” The words came pouring out, and Mickey knew he was still being awkward, but the guy, Ian, still didn’t seem phased.

As he rang Mickey’s purchase up, he offered a small smile that Mickey felt powerless not to return, a real smile this time. They stood like that for a moment.

“You wanna get lunch,” Mickey heard himself ask.

“Workin’. Maybe another day?” 

Mickey’s heart dropped and rose in the span of a sentence. “I work, but uh, yeah. We can work somethin’ out.”

“You still have my number?”

A large portion of Mickey’s brain had hoped Ian hadn’t recognized him from the club, but when was he ever so lucky? At least the guy wasn’t put off by his indecisiveness. 

“I lost it,” he lied quickly. “Been lookin’ for you though. Didn’t have your last name.” 

“Yeah?” The red-head cocked his head to the side, blushing a little. “It’s Ian Gallagher. Gimme your phone.”

Mickey handed it over, and watched Ian program his name into the contacts. There were only three other names in the list: Mandy, Work, Iggy. 

Gallagher held out the phone for Mickey to take back, and as their fingers brushed, Mickey swore he could feel a spark rush up his whole arm, leaving it numb. 

Ian caught his eye, “Call me this time, ok? For real.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok.”

And to his credit, Mickey actually did. Well, he texted. They went back and forth a few times, trying to get their schedules to match up, but after a few weeks of not being able to find a day or time, Mickey admitted the truth to himself: he didn’t have the time to date right now, no matter how hot or nice the guy seemed. 


	4. Didn't, of course, 'til summertime/Out to the beach to his boat could I join him?/No, this time it was me/Sunburn in the third degree

By summer, Mickey had stopped jerkin’ off to his memories of the tall red head, and only had a few “hot ginger boyfriend” porn videos saved on his phone. It was Friday night, and instead of going out with Mandy to another bar filled with overpriced drinks and overly-handsy men twice his age, Mickey was lying in a sweat-soaked wife beater on his bed, hoping for the lazily turning fan to somehow cool him off.

His phone pinged, and Mickey thought about ignoring it. But it could be Mandy, she could need his help. So he rolled over and peeked at the screen.

**Ian (8:37 PM)** Hey Mick!

**Mickey (8:38)** hi?

**Ian (8:39 PM)** You still have sundays off?

**Mickey (8:40 PM)** yeah why?

**Ian (8:42 PM)** Pool party at my place this sunday afternoon. We’ll dump in a ton of ice cubes. Come?

Mickey nearly whimpered at the idea of cool water surrounding him, instead of the sticky hot air in his apartment. He didn’t have anything going on Sunday afternoon- in the morning he’d promised to help Iggy move some furniture into his new apartment, but that was no big deal. 

**Mickey (8:45 PM)** yeah ok send me ur address

\---

Iggy had understated the enormity of the task ahead of them that morning. As the sun rose, high and hot already at 9 am, Mickey and Iggy were busy cleaning out Iggy’s new apartment of the previous owner’s furniture. They’d stacked it all on the lawn out front, despite the other tenant’s dirty looks, and started to load in Iggy’s new shit, when Iggy suddenly sat heavily on the grass.

“Man, I’m beat. Take a fuckin’ break.” 

Mickey checked the time- 12:30. He needed to wrap this up so he could go home and get a shower before the pool party but… he glanced longingly at the icy cold beer Iggy was holding out to him.

_ One beer couldn’t hurt, right? _

Two hours later, Mickey woke up from where he’d dozed off in the middle of the lawn beside Iggy. They’d downed half a six-pack each, and started reminiscing about all the shit they’d been through. Eventually, the memories had gotten too dark, and they’d fallen silent. Then, apparently, asleep. As Mickey went to stretch, his skin felt tight, and weirdly hot. He made a noise of discomfort that must have woken Iggy.

His eyes got wide as he looked at Mickey.

“What? What the fuck, Ig?”

“Uh, did you put on sunscreen this morning?”

“Fuck, no, I didn’t put on sunscreen. That shit gives you cancer,” Mickey scoffed as he gingerly tried to stand. The front of his shins felt like they were on fire- he glanced down and realized why Iggy had asked. They’d both fallen asleep. In the sun. In the summer. Iggy either had sunblock on, or his skin wasn’t as sensitive as Mickey’s because while he looked tanner, he didn’t seem to be in pain. Mickey’s skin was bright red and throbbing with every movement.

In the end, he texted Gallagher a picture of his chest, red and raw, while he sat in a tub of cool water that night, explaining what had befallen him. Just his fuckin’ luck.


	5. Last fall I had a night to myself/Same guy called, Halloween party/Waited all night for him to show/This time his car wouldn't go

In the fall, once it had cooled off, it felt like every one of Mickey’s co-workers got into relationships at the same time. While he was busy bitching to Mandy, she put a hand on his arm.

“What do you expect? It’s cuffing season.”

“The fuck is cuffing season?”

“Like handcuffs, but it just means everyone’s getting into a relationship? Like to keep warm in the winter?”

Mickey blew out a breath of scorn, but his mind still went to Gallagher. 

“So are you coming to my Halloween party? You have to wear a costume, bitch!”

“Fine, yeah.” He leaned over and punched her lightly in the arm. “You’re the bitch, bitch.”

\---

Of course he invited Gallagher and then spent literal hours perseverating over what his costume should be before settling on some camo pants and a tight tee-shirt. The pants were snug on his thighs and ass, but that was just a bonus. 

He felt a little weird about giving Ian his sister’s address, but the guy had given Mickey his own address that summer, even if it hadn’t worked out. 

After the party had started, Mickey found a corner to lurk in, watching the door for Gallagher. A few single guys came through, dressed in wild enough costumes that they  _ could  _ have been Ian, but none of them approached Mickey, so he checked his phone and saw he’d missed a call.  _ Shit _ .

_ Hey, Mick, it’s me. I’m so sorry but my car’s dead and I can’t find a ride to you tonight. I’m gonna have to cancel and we’ll try again another time? Again, I am so sorry. It’s Ian, by the way. Ok, bye. _

Mickey sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall. The universe really did hate him.


	6. Then suddenly we laughed and laughed/Caught on to what was happening/That Christmas magic's brought this tale/To a very happy ending

Two months later, and Mickey was done reminiscing about the guy who’d gotten away. Mandy was shacked up with some new guy for Christmas, and Iggy had been arrested for fencing stolen goods. Least Mickey knew he was safe. 

It was just Mickey for the holiday, and that was fine. He had the whole day off to make himself a nice meal: a tiny turkey that the Jewel ads claimed was hormone and antibiotic free, some potatoes boiling that he could mash up with the butter and milk in his fridge, even a little salad of shaved brussel sprouts that Mark had given all the employees as a holiday gift. Weird, man.

As he surveyed the postage-stamp sized kitchen, the final detail hit him and he groaned. Pie. He’d forgotten dessert! Angrily, he put on his boots and coat and went down to the corner store, determined to find something sweet to end his meal with, even if he ended up eating whipped cream from the spray can. Wouldn’t be the first time, even.

After trudging through the slush in the early darkness, Mickey pushed open the door, hearing the jingling bell overhead. Usually, the shop owner would greet him by name, no longer with a frown of disapproval and distrust. He’d stopped stealing from the place a while back, and now he had no intention of going back to jail for something so petty. But the owner wasn’t behind the counter reading a magazine. 

It was a different, familiar, flame-haired, face.

_ Gallagher _ .

“Mickey?” His name came out less like a question and more like an exhalation of breath.

“Gallagher, what’re you doing here?” Mickey was confused. He knew Ian didn’t live in the area, based on the address of the pool party. So what was he doing working at a local store?

“I work here when I’m home for the holidays with my family.”

That… made sense, actually. It gave Mickey an idea. 

“What time do you get off?” He winced when the unintentional double entendre hit, but Ian didn’t seem put off, only grinned as he looked at his watch.

“Bout an hour.”

“Ok, well dinner’ll be ready by then.”

“You invitin’ me on a date?”

“Fuck you is what you’re invited to,” Mickey responded, clearly joking. He drifted back to the freezer case, pulling out two cans of spray whipped topping and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s that had probably been in there since the 90’s.

Gallagher was leaning on the counter up front, a happy expression on his face. In the fluorescents, Mickey could see the tiny sprays of freckles that dotted his skin, face, arms, and hands alike. He wondered idly if they were everywhere.

Ian started dropping his items into a plastic bag, but he hadn’t scanned them.

“Hey man, I hate to tell you how to do your job or anything, but you didn’t ring that shit up.”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t come to dinner empty handed, can I?” Ian was teasing him, probably.

“Fine, it’s your job. I just don’t wanna go back to prison for two bottles of whipped cream.” He sobered, realizing he’d just told this stupidly attractive man that he was a felon. That scared some guys off, if the finger tats hadn’t already.

“Don’t worry about it, really. The owner owes me.” Ian didn’t even blink when Mickey mentioned prison. He reached out, and squeezed Mickey’s hand where it lay, fisted on the countertop. “I’ll be there in an hour. Maybe less.”

“Ok, yeah.” Mickey stared at where the giant hand engulfed his own, thinking. He looked up, remembering that there was a whole-ass person attached to the hand. “Don’t fuckin’ bail on me, ok? I can’t eat all the mashed potatoes myself.”

Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand one last time, then let go. “Not a chance, now that I know there’re potatoes involved. Potatoes and I have a long standing relationship.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes as he took the plastic bag, heading for the door.

“Oh, and Mick?”

He looked up, caught with the door cracked so he was scouted by the dark street behind him. 

Gallagher smiled. “Happy Christmas.”

**_A &P has provided me_ **

**_With the world's smallest turkey_ **

**_Already in the oven, nice and hot_ **

**_Oh damn! Guess what I forgot?_ **

**_So on, with the boots, back out in the snow_ **

**_To the only all-night grocery_ **

**_When what to my wondering eyes should appear_ **

**_In the line is that guy I've been chasing all year_ **

**_"I'm spending this one alone," he said_ **

**_"Need a break, this year's been crazy"_ **

**_I said, "Me too, but why are you?_ **

**_You mean you forgot cranberries too?"_ **


End file.
